


Brave

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, M/M, Panic Attack, Stiles is the Kanima's Master
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s this fine, fine line between Stiles’ control over himself and his control over Jackson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PilgrimKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PilgrimKitty/gifts).



> Based on one of PilgrimKitty's lovely prompts on her tumblr:
> 
> Stiles helps Jackson through a panic attack.

His jaw is tight. The muscles shift when he swallows, then they go stiff again and stay that way. Like his mouth’s wired shut. Jackson is furious, seething, but there’s something different in it. He’s not spitting with rage, he’s soaking in it instead, submerging his head under the surface.

Stiles wonders if it has anything to do with the hurt in his eyes.

Guilt usually comes with an unending spew of word vomit for Stiles, long threads of sentences tying together about everything and nothing. This time, though, words don’t come. There’s only the faint grimace on Jackson’s face, the faint, disgusted scrunch of that perfect nose.

“What do you want, Stilinski?” Stiles jumps at the suddenness of the words, but more so at the sharp click of Jackson’s jaw snapping shut again.

And, oh, right, there’s a reason why they’re outside on the decrepit Hale porch, why Stiles’ hand is still clenched around Jackson’s arm. Why Jackson’s casting a glare where they touch like he wants to saw off his arm right there.

Stiles releases him, wipes his—shaky—hands down his shirt. “Um.”

Jackson scoffs, patience lost, and starts to stomp off not back to the pack inside, but to his leaf-covered Porsche not too far off.

He knows what he should do. Stiles’ tongue is caught between his teeth, ready for the word. He hates it, though.

“Stop.”

And, Jackson does, freezes, body poised to take the final step. The control makes Stiles’ chest tight, tight as the other boy’s jaw. They stand silently, Stiles staring at the back of Jackson’s head and Jackson staring at his car. He’s surprised Jackson hasn’t said anything; then, he realizes that it’s his fault.

There’s this fine, fine line between Stiles’ control over himself and his control over Jackson.

He bursts into action, Jackson, when he’s released and he takes that last step, turns, backs away. His breathing is loud, sharp huffs forced from flared nostrils then his open mouth, and, what’s worse is the fact that Stiles can _feel_ the fear—Jackson’s fear—rattling through him. Stiles knows this kind of terror and the guilt chokes him, because it’s _his fault_.

He steps forward, stops when Jackson staggers backward.

“No.” Jackson’s eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading and rolling down his face in the autumn breeze. His voice is raspy, breathless. “No, fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you _fuck_ —” He claws his fingers—still human, still human—through his hair, over his scalp, and the curses are no longer words but strangled noises.

Stiles flies down those stairs when Jackson’s knees hit the ground.

He eases into a crouch beside Jackson, hovers because, fuck, _he_ caused this, _he’s_ the trigger, how does he approach this? He licks his lips, takes in the rough sounds of Jackson crying, really _crying_. “Jackson,” he begins gently, “Jackson, I—”

“No, no no no,” the other teen _screeches_ , curling into himself, hands still in his hair. “No, just fuck off Stil—Stilin—just go _away_ ,” he finishes in a helpless whine. “I just—I can’t, I can’t—”

Stiles shushes him soothingly, placing a tentative hand on Jackson’s shoulder. He jerks slightly, but doesn’t shove the hand away, so Stiles risks it, risks it and moves it to his back, starts rubbing in small circles. “I’m sorry,” he finds himself saying for lack of anything else, “This is my fault, all my fault. I’m sorry. I’ll work harder, I’ll fix it, I’ll—” Stiles closes his eyes, exhales deeply. “It’s okay, Jackson. It’s okay,” he repeats, hand pressing a little harder. “Just breathe.”

Jackson’s rocking eases until it stops completely, but his body is still as tight as a bowstring. Stiles recalls his psychologist’s advice from so long ago.

“Let’s—let’s try to breathe, okay?” He tilts his head, searches Jackson’s face, his now open eyes. He demonstrates slowly, flares his nostrils as he breathes in and purses his lips when he breathes out. “Like that? Can you do that for me?”

Jackson stares at him and Stiles is scared that he’s crossed some line, that he’s hurting more than helping, but then he complies. When his stuttering breath starts to even, Stiles eases him into counting exercises, his hand still on his spine. He watches, watches how those eyelashes gather sweat and tears, watches hands lower from damp hair, and he wonders how he stupid he had been, how nasty and unnecessarily cruel he was, to have wanted Jackson dead.

He had wanted to _kill_ Jackson.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says. He tries to keep his voice firm, but it wavers. “I’m so, so sorry, Jackson. I was—I’m an idiot. I’m so _stupid_. But, I—” He licks his lips, fails not to quiver when he realizes they’re eye to eye. “I’m not Matt, okay. I’m not—I’m not _Gerard_. I promise you that. I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

A strange moment passes between them. Then, Jackson breaks eye contact, exhales deeply, and he nods. Swallows and nods.

“Okay.” His voice is _rough_.

“O-Okay?”

Jackson rests his hand—shaking, shaking, still _shaking_ —on Stiles’ thigh. He gives another slight, jerky nod and whispers, “Okay. I—I, uh . . .” He flinches when Stiles takes his hand, curls their hands together as support.

_Thank you_ , he says without words, _It’s strange, yet I trust you_. _I hate it_ , _I hate it so much_ , _but_ . . . _but_ , _if_ _anything_ , _anything_ —

“I’m—” Jackson gives a short, mirthless laugh, a stray tear rolling down the curve of his cheek. “I can’t believe it, but I’m glad it’s you.”

Stiles feels his heart beat, feels needed, feels _in control_ , and it’s the scariest, most painful thing he’s never wanted to face. But, suddenly, it’s not as awful as it was half an hour ago, not as terrible.

He looks at their tentatively locked hands, still startled by them. He squeezes Jackson’s hand a little tighter.

“It’ll be okay. I’m here for you.”


End file.
